63. Belated Judgment (25)

"Just die already," Seraphax said.

He had never thought he would say something like that, but facts spoke louder than words, didn't they? His sword was buried deep in a daemon's chest. By all rights, the disintegration field should have reduced any flesh and blood to nothingness, but this daemon was an exception.

Its flesh was denser and more wicked than that of its kin, making it harder to kill. Over the past twelve seconds, Seraphax had severed its left arm, split open its abdomen, and smashed its left eye with his fist.

And now, he had driven his sword deep into its heart, even exerting force a second time as he wrestled against its right hand braced upon the crossguard, trying to split it cleanly in two once and for all—but somehow, the thing simply would not die.

The knowledge belonging to the Chaos sorcerers quietly surfaced in the Dark Angel's mind. In voices both detached and precise, it offered its analysis before finally converging on a conclusion.

This daemon had been enhanced—it had become powerful enough to reach a level it should never have attained. That was highly unusual.

Seraphax had no doubt that even if he entered the Warp now, confronted this daemon's essence face-to-face, and reenacted this battle, that essence would not be more difficult to deal with than this filthy corporeal body of aether.

And the reason? One only had to look around to know it.

"Weak!"

The daemon spat out its scorn with a furious laugh. It might not have been roaring, but its voice sounded no different from the harshest engine noise—if anything, it was even more irritating.

Seraphax could not be bothered to respond to its assessment of his words. He merely adopted another strategy—letting go of his sword with both hands